My Not So Secret Life
by Morofthesea
Summary: The rating may be strict now, but this is a story about Kitty coming to terms with life. She also comes to terms with her odd attraction to her roommate among other things.


Title: My Not-so-Secret Life Rating: PG-13 or so Warnings: Fem-slash or yuri. I always make my favorite character gay. This time it happens to be Kitty. She amuses and intrigues me. Notes: For right now, this is a simple character piece. I'm experimenting with her character. I have to make her three-dimensional before I can really slash her and put her into a relationship, right now I'm thinking Wanda or Rogue. I've just got this thing where I could see opposites attracting. Kitty would soften her hard edges and stuff. Disclaimer: Owning nothing over hear. I DO OWN THE POEM WITHIN THE STORY THOUGH!!!!! (*sigh* Dostevesky would hate me)  
  
My Name is Katherine Pryde. I know, I'm not very interesting. My mom read Jane Austen a lot and started calling me Kitty when I was about three years old. She nicknamed me after the overlooked second oldest child in Pride and Prejudice. I read the book when Mom told me I was named after her. I can't say I liked Kitty. I felt more sorry for her than anything. No one really liked her, but she wasn't a horrible character. For some reason, only Elizabeth, the strong second oldest sister, showed any kind of liking for her after her youngest sister Lydia's elopement. The book wasn't bad. I just didn't like Kitty.  
  
For most of my life, I've tried to fit in. I've worn the clothes, just because I didn't want to be laughed at. Mom said if I weren't so worried about fitting in, I would do just fine in life. Thanks Mom. That's a lot of help. It's hard not to worry about fitting-in in High School. I wanted my High School to be different than Junior High. Not really wanted, more like desperately needed it to be different than Junior High. I didn't want graffiti written about me. I didn't want to be tripped on my way to turn in my test first. I didn't want girls to shun me and boys to laugh at me. I was so tired of being an outcast.  
  
I was in the band in Junior High, with other outcasts. I played the trombone. Mom didn't quite like the idea that her daughter would play such a butch instrument.  
  
"Geez! Kitty, can't you play a different instrument? Like the xylophone or the clarinet or the saxophone?" She didn't ask if I would play the flute. She already knew what I'd say to that. "You know in that movie, American Pie, the girl did indecent things with her flute."  
  
"Why the trombone?" Mom insisted. "Why? Why the band at all? Why not cheerleading? Or volleyball?"  
  
"Because," I said like it was completely obvious, "it'll be fun."  
  
"Why another club at all? You're in the Russian Language Club, the Chess club, and the Computer club."  
  
"Mom, this is what I want to do. Are you going to question what I want to do for the rest of my life?"  
  
"Kitty you're only twelve years old! I just want what's best for you."  
  
"I know, but I want to play music," I decided to take the dramatic route with her. "Don't you know that it's in my blood?! I am DUKE ELLINGTON INCARNATE!"  
  
"Alright, alright," Mom sighed. "Play that damned slide thingy."  
  
"Trombone, Mom."  
  
"Yeah, whatever."  
  
So, that's how I convinced Mom to let me join the band, and I made a few outcast friends. There was Paula, whom I already knew from Advanced Literature and Computer class, Wilson, another casual friend from chess club, and Doug, from Russian Language club. We had been friends before, but now that we had a class together, we talked more and became decent friends. Paula was a little cynical about everything, and if you took sarcasm out of her day-to-day speech, she would be silent. Doug was a pretty good friend with weird ideas about politics. And Wilson fit every stereotype of a typical geek.  
  
Then again, at twelve years old, I fit every stereotype of the dorky girl. I wore thick black-rimmed reading glasses half the time. Also, I wore the "stylish" clothes but didn't really look the part. In gym class, it seemed that no matter how good I was at gymnastics or dance, I could never really get out of the dork image. I remembered a talk I had with myself in the mirror.  
  
"Kitty, you're not a bad looking girl. You've actually got a pretty face. Why do you let people make you think you're trash? Come one girl! Grow some imaginary balls!" I remember looking around to make sure no one heard that last one. "Anyway, Kitty, as I was saying," as creepy as that felt I went on, "Just be yourself, not who people want you to be."  
  
It was an annoyingly cheerful pep talk I didn't enjoy too much. I guess that means I'm a masochist, but in some strange way, talking to myself made me feel a teeny tiny bit better. I am still trying to understand why.  
  
Anyway, at the beginning of my freshman year of High School, I began having extreme headaches. The nurse thought it was stress from all the advanced classes I was taking.  
  
"Calculus? No wonder you have splitting migraines, girl. Stop taking college classes and get out of my office."  
  
I told my parents my curriculum wasn't the problem. Mom believed me. Dad just shrugged. My dad's always been like that though. He's always just given the very very smallest part of his brain to brush off his family. Mom said she would take me to the doctor the day before my great revelation. I went upstairs to take a nap. I lay down and went to sleep. The next thing I know, it's night, and I'm sitting on the floor of my basement.  
  
Wow, this isn't normal, I thought to myself. The details of what happened next are a little irrelevant. The bottom line was that I was recruited to go live with a bald professor in a mansion with kids like me. After it was put on the table, I said I'd have to think about it. I went to school the next day, not feeling that great and probably not looking that great either. No one even noticed I was there. I talked to Paula in band. She and I sat beside each other because she played trumpet, and our sections were right beside each other.  
  
"Hey Paula," I forced a weak smile.  
  
"Oh, Hey Kitty," she said a little distracted.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," she put her mouthpiece on her trumpet.  
  
"Are you sure? You seem a little. preoccupied."  
  
"I said nothing was wrong," Paula snapped.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
After class I went to the bathroom. While I was in there, Paula came in talking to some other girl. "You know, I'm getting so sick of Kitty. She's always bugging me. Gawd! Why can't that little bitch get a life?"  
  
My stomach twisted inside itself. What? I thought she was my friend. Why would she say something like that? I pulled my legs to my chest and sat on the toilet until they both left. Everything inside me felt hot and embarrassed. I just wanted to curl up and die right there. Tears stung my eyes, and I looked over to see if there was toilet paper. That's when I saw fresh graffiti. "Kitty Pryde is a fucking kike. Watch your wallets." Fresh tears poured from my eyes. Why are people so cruel?  
  
The bell rang, but I really didn't feel like going to class. I decided to go to the nurse's office. I came out of the stall and washed off all the smudged makeup. I'll say that I'm having another migraine, I thought to myself. It's not exactly true, but my head is hurting.  
  
"Katherine, what have I told you about Calculus? It will rot your brain." The nurse continued on about the evils of math. "When was the last time you just had fun?"  
  
"Huh?" I asked, removing the icepack from my eyes.  
  
"Fun? You know when you laugh for no reason other than the fact that the world is temporarily forgotten."  
  
"You were an English Major in college weren't you?" I put the ice pack over my eyes again, hoping it would dull the redness and puffiness of my eyes.  
  
"How'd you know?" the nurse asked, searching around for a Tylenol.  
  
"You're poetic-like speech. I took a guess."  
  
The nurse sat down. "Katherine."  
  
I sat up and put the icepack on my head. Her hazel eyes looked a little sad for a moment. "You know, I thought about being a poet. Just breezing my way through life."  
  
"Why don't you? You shouldn't be here taking care of High School brats."  
  
She smiled a little. "I don't think you understand. It's too hard."  
  
"And being a nurse is easy?" my head pounded, but I kept on listening to her.  
  
"I guess you're right, but I'm too old now."  
  
I shrugged. "How old are you? Like twenty-eight?"  
  
"That's cute. I'm actually thirty-something."  
  
"That's not old. That's your prime."  
  
"I suppose you're right, but if you see me here tomorrow, don't be surprised. I have a job and responsibilities."  
  
"If you don't see me ever again, don't be surprised. I'm thinking about changing schools."  
  
"Why? This isn't a bad public school, as far as public schools go."  
  
"I have graffiti written about me."  
  
"Well, that happens."  
  
"It says that I'm a kike."  
  
"Oh," she looked away. "I'm sorry about them." We sat in silence for a moment. "But you know, you can't just run away from problems like that forever."  
  
"I think I just need a new start. The people here, they just hate me. I can't ever do anything right. Plus, they know too much about me. At least if I move to a new town, not everyone will know that I'm actually a dork."  
  
"A dork?"  
  
"Yeah, a bookworm, a straight-A student, or a very intelligent girl in more polite terms."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with that."  
  
I lay down again. "Maybe I just need to lay down and take it all. I can't stand fighting."  
  
The nurse made me sit up and take a Tylenol and drink some orange juice. "Go for it. You deserve a new start where people don't write about you on bathroom walls."  
  
"Go write poetry. You deserve to be able to do something besides baby-sit low self-esteem brats with head aches and aunt flows." I was about to leave, when I thought of something. "Do you have any of your poetry with you?"  
  
She looked surprised. "Um.I have a few on my computer here. Why? Do you want to read it?"  
  
"Like I said, I'm probably leaving tomorrow."  
  
"Oh, well, sure! Let me get you a decent one." She went over to her computer and clicked around until the printer whirred to life. "Here you go."  
  
"Thanks Nurse Jameson," I smiled and tucked the paper in my pocket.  
  
After I checked out of school, I went to the park and read Nurse Jameson's poem.  
  
Voodoo v. Nirvana You notice things when you're alone I've noticed that I observed how quiet it can be when you hold your breath and close your eyes I might even go as far to say it's a nirvana-like quietness But I won't When you're alone, no one around for a good two miles, you start to feel slightly sick, don't you? I think you notice how your clothes touch you, because no one else is around to be with You notice that water tastes the same from the faucet and from the bottle You notice every light and touch because there's no sound, except for you padding aimlessly on a tile floor  
  
Wonder what voodoo doll just made me cry, because I'm happy  
  
There are times when I think work is a welcome change, just because I'm not completely locked in myself I can be someone else for a day, putting someone else's foot in my shoe, and playing dress up in my closet Soft padding sounds are like music, shuffling along, looking for something, just something I'm not lonely  
  
Voodoo dolls certainly are obnoxious, aren't they?  
  
And just because I say I love a dog, doesn't mean I'm zoophilic And just because I don't make my bed doesn't mean I'm unsanitary  
  
I think that there's a way to just say no, but I haven't discovered that way yet, because I can't say no to her Perverted is a word that I think can be utilized many different ways Like perverted milk or perverted literature, not just perverted male, like it is so often used I've always wanted to have something to say so wonderful, people will bow down to me and say I'm great But they won't, because I can't give what everyone wants. Buddha was a teacher, not a god, I say to the world. Jesus was a man, and religion doesn't make you joyful Vaseline has a thousand uses, like setting wounds and healing chapped lips, but does it make you happy? I've noticed a lot, like why nails grow so slowly and how skin gets rough and why windows are a necessity And I've noticed that one night of silence is all I need to appreciate a busy day  
  
I notice these things,  
  
Because like I said, you notice these things when you're alone  
  
And voodoo dolls don't exist  
  
Woah. That was just weird. A little long and a lot of weird, but it was a good weird. It had substance. For a second, I didn't understand but now I do. She's interesting. Too bad I'm leaving.  
  
I'm leaving. Sounds weird. I haven't really gone outside of Illinois, except those few trips to South Dakota to see family, and that was, needless to say, unpleasant. I guess in reality, what I'll miss most is my little dog, Lockheed. I love him so much. He's like a little shadow to me, and I talk to him all the time. I know that sounds a little crazy, well more eccentric than anything, but I think sometimes Lockheed understands me more than anyone else. God, now that I know what I actually am, a mutant, I feel like I can only relate to animals.  
  
My decision has been made. I am going to New York.  
  
Why did I choose New York? Why couldn't I have just stayed home and faced death like a true coward? The people here are scary. The toad kid is creepy. Wolverine is just plain frightening. To top all that off, there's a telepath that can read my every thought. This place makes me paranoid beyond belief.  
  
I curled up on my new bed after I unpacked some of my stuff. I can't turn back. My decision was final when I made it. I can't believe my parents let me make that kind of decision on my own! Where was obnoxious parental over protectiveness when you really needed it?  
  
Anyway, I looked up at the ceiling and sighed deeply. Surprisingly, sighing does make a person feel better. That's when Ms. Munroe walked in the door.  
  
"Katherine?"  
  
"Oh, please, I'd prefer if you call me Kitty."  
  
"Alright, Kitty. I just came up here to talk to you." Ms. Munroe sat down on the bed beside me. "I know this isn't really easy for you to adjust to, but I promise you, it will get better. We cannot help who we are."  
  
"Yeah, I know," I sat up and looked into her eyes to check for sincerity.  
  
"We can help who we become. I don't want to give you a standard cultish sounding line, but we can help you reach your full potential. The Professor and I have been working together for some time helping Jean and Scott. They have been able to maintain control of their powers. We can help you gain some control of your powers."  
  
"Powers? It's nothing really. Nothing I can use to my advantage. The only thing I can really do is run away from an attack."  
  
"That doesn't matter. What matters is you can learn to use your, let's call them, abilities."  
  
"Ms. Munroe."  
  
"Ororo," she corrected almost instantly.  
  
"Ororo, I know that you guys want me to be here, but I need time to adjust."  
  
Ororo nodded. "I understand. It's a hard change."  
  
"I'll say! Being in the same house with someone who can read your mind makes me paranoid, and Wolverine just scares the crap out of me."  
  
Ororo laughed. "You'll learn this soon enough, but Logan is not as scary as he looks."  
  
"That's scary enough."  
  
Ororo smiled. "I promise it will get better. You can talk to me or Jean if you need to."  
  
"Okay," I said.  
  
Not bad. Ororo's nice enough. Okay, starting to feel a little more confident in my decision. Now all I have to do is sit back and let things happen. 


End file.
